


Rumble and Soar

by IraBragi



Series: Building Home [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Family is hard, M/M, PTSD, Relationshiping is hard, TW: talking about suicide, communication and family, happy/hopeful ending, living with mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraBragi/pseuds/IraBragi
Summary: They say you can find almost anything if you are willing to ride far enough.  That’s how we end up on his motorcycle one night, flying so fast that even our demons started to fall behind





	Rumble and Soar

There are days when Jason wants to leave.  Leave Gotham, where the nights are long and there is always another bad guy with a bad plan.  Leave Batman and the Robins, who want to work with him but struggle to trust him.  Leave his father who still sees a broken boy and silent grave lurking in his shadow.  Leave his brothers who want him to be something he can’t be; who want the man he might have turned into if it hadn't been for… Well he is never going to be that man now, is he?

I can see it in him sometimes, after a rough patrol or family dinner, it’s not that hard when you know how to look.  And I’ve gotten pretty good at looking at one, Jason Todd.  

It’s not just his family or this place though.  When the flashbacks come one after another, when paranoia twists even the safe things into terror, and the PTDS acts up because some monsters never die, only sleep.  When his brain is screaming and his body is battered and it feels like it’s never going to end… those are the days when he wants to _leave_.

He tried to explain it to me once.  That it’s not quite being suicidal.  It’s not wanting death, it’s just wishing for quiet.  For the hurting to stop.  It’s wanting to run far enough and fast enough that you leave your ghosts behind, even the ones that live behind your ribs.

I just nodded because he didn’t have to tell me, I know.

We take turns holding each other when it gets bad.  He wakes up screaming and wanting to fight anything.  To feel the blood running down his knuckles, to fight until he’s sure that there is no coffin surrounding him.  

I don’t fight, I go quiet.  Everything feels angry and my brain is a mess of anxiety in hyper-speed.  A hamster wheel with razors attached, is how I describe it.  I’m furious at my bain, at my past, at existence.  And when it all gets to be too much I just kinda… pause.  I fold into myself and ride it out.  Complex PTSD and an anxiety disorder - the words are far too neat and polite to describe the beast that lies coiled around my spine.   

They say you can find almost anything if you are willing to ride far enough.  That’s how we end up on his motorcycle one night, flying so fast that even our demons started to fall behind.  It became a tradition after that.

Jay drives like the bike and the road are dancing a waltz and I hold on behind him.  He says I feel solid when we ride together.  Like everything else is spinning except me and he doesn't have to worry because he knows that I have his back.  I'm not sure that physics would agree with that statement but physics has never really defined my Jaybird anyway.

It’s one of those nights.

We ride until Gotham is a smudge of light on the horizon and we can see the stars overhead.  We pull off the road and Jason parks the bike.  Then we walk, side by side, until we find a tree big enough for us both to lean up against.  

It’s dark and quiet here; the grass is wet from the evening dew but we sit down anyway, shoulder to shoulder.  For a long time we let the silence rest unbroken.

“Long day, yeah?”

It breaks the ice.  We both laugh.

“Not so much” I deadpan, “just some mild stabbing.”

The silence stretches again.

“I know I shouldn't give dad such a hard time…. Or worry you.  I just…”

The last couple of weeks had been bad.  Tim and Dick were both out of commission - Tim with pneumonia and Dick a broken ankle.  Which of course meant that it was the perfect time for Mr. Freeze to break out of Arkham.  Between that and a nasty gun smuggling ring who, after Arrow kicked them out of Star City decide that Gotham was the next logical place to set up shop, I don’t think that Jay or Bruce had been out of their uniforms in over a week.

Yesterday it became clear that the two cases were connected and a ice bomb/doomsday machine had been disarmed.  Mr. Freeze was back on the island and the gun smugglers were handed over to the FBI.

It should be a good day.  The good guys won. The world creaks on… except… Bruce never knew when to leave well enough alone.  Jason either really, the family resemblance is strong.  

Bruce didn’t approve of Jason’s methods, Jayson didn’t approve of Bruce’s disapproval.  Bone deep exhaustion and blood loss added a spark to the tinder.

The argument turned vicious in a way that I hadn't seen in a long time.  There was blame to lay on both sides, but it was Bruce who chose to run away and leave me to watch Jay punch through two walls before he stormed out with a bullet still in his arm.  

Maybe I should be more upset about the walls but, no matter how angry I’ve ever seen him get, Jason has never once turned that anger toward me - and the walls patch easy enough.  Patching up things between father and son, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so easily fixed with plaster and off-white paint.  

I had expected Jason to disappear for the night.  Go patrol, or hide out at one of the safehouses and get drunk, or do whatever it was that he did when he was pissed off and exhausted, and too exhausted to admit that he was exhausted.  Instead he came back after a couple of hours.

“Want to go give Superman’s cows a scare?”  He’s out of the mask but still wearing the leather jacket and guns.  I sometimes wonder how exactly it is that anyone maintains a secret identity around here.

“You do know that not every cow in the world belongs to Clark, right?”

“Naw.”

I shrug and smile.  “Let me fix your arm first.”

The wound isn’t deep.  He pouts more about me making him leave his guns at the house.  We compromise on one pistol and a pair of brass knuckles (Honestly I think he just uses them because he thinks they make him look cool.  I don’t correct him on this because… oh who am I kidding, they do.)

It's just past 2am when we head out.  It crosses my mind that we are riding into the darkness looking for light.  Then I shake my head at my own ridiculousness.  I sound like Penguin.

We don’t find any cows to scare but as we drive the stress, and anger, and worry give away to quiet.  By the time we are sitting under a tree watching the night slip away there is even  a feeling peace.  Maybe we will talk under the stars, or we can just sit together and watch the sun come up.

It’s not a fix.  Tomorrow there will still be jobs to go to (me), and Bruce to deal with (him), patrol, and medical emergencies, and defeating whatever new plan the villains have come up with to end Gotham as we know it.  

Maybe that’s the secret though; you don’t have to fix everything to find peace.  You find it in bits and pieces, right there, in the middle of the crazy.  Sometimes that peace looks like dark roads and roaring engines.  Sometimes it looks like talking about things that you would rather punch and sometimes it looks like someone to share the silence with.  Whatever form it takes it’s a rare gift, peace, and I’ll take what I can find.  

Over our heads the first star gives way to the dawn.


End file.
